 | Chronicles of Pineville |  |
THE DUEL.
It was on a rainy September evening in the fall
of 18—, that a group of men were seated round
the cheerful bar-room fire of the Planters' Hotel.
Among them were several from the country, who
were detained in town by the inclemency of the
weather, but the majority of the company was composed
of citizens of Pineville. Uncle Hearty, who
generally presided on such occasions, was present,
and Sammy Stonestreet was there, to drink his share
of the rum, and to indicate to the rest the laughing
places in such stories as had become rather stale,
or in which the humour was not easily detected by
less experienced jokers.
The evening was well-nigh spent—notwithstanding
the company evinced no inclination to disperse,
while they freely mixed in conversation, and entertained
each other with stories and anecdotes that
ever and anon elicited loud bursts of laughter; the
usual precursor of which was a shrill squeal from
Sammy, who beat the floor with his cotton-stalk, by
way of accompaniment. Sometimes Uncle Hearty
only evinced his risibility by a sort of asthmatic
wheeze in the throat, but when he rose above that,
and broke forth into one of his good, old-fashioned,
side-shaking laughs, the balance of the company
something to laugh at, and unanimously joined in
the chorus.
In the midst of this scene of social hilarity the
street door was opened, and a tall, dark-complexioned
man entered, and without ceremony seated himself
in a conspicuous part of the room. He was at once
recognised as no less a personage than Major Ferguson
Bangs, and the customary salutation of “good
evening, Major Bangs,” was uttered by several at
the same time. The person thus addressed made
no reply; but, crossing his legs and cocking his hat
with a most impudent inclination to one side of his
head, contracted his thick, black brow, and, after
gazing insolently round the room, fixed his fierce
gaze upon the fire, and remained silent.
“Never mind, gentlemen,” said Sammy, “the
major's got his high-heeled boots on to-night. Go
on 'bout Gun Bustin gittin' into the waspses nest.”
After the momentary interruption occasioned by
the intrusion, the story of Gun Bustin and the wasps'
nest was resumed, and Major Bangs left to indulge
in his revery of thought, uninterrupted by any further
address. As the speaker proceeded with his
story, the major smiled a very incredulous smile,
occasionally uttering a loud “ahem!”—and in the
midst of the general laugh that followed its conclusion,
he was heard to mutter something that had a
“d—n” in it. But no notice was taken, by the
company, either of the clearing of his throat or the
muttering. At length the major's patience seemed
to have become wearied, and he determined to adopt
he turned abruptly round in his seat, and
fixing his gaze steadfastly upon one who was relating
an anecdote in which himself was a prominent
actor, waited until the speaker drew to a close,
when, as the laugh died away, he exclaimed aloud
—“Doubts arising, sir!”
The major was no stranger to the speaker, and
the remark was permitted to pass without notice.
But Major Ferguson Bangs was not to be foiled
in his attempt to provoke a quarrel. He became
more and more insolent, and seized upon every
opportunity to interrupt and insult the speakers, by
whistling upon a high key, and uttering such exclamations
as—“Bah!”—“whew!”—“that'll do for
the marines,” and the like.
At length a few whispers were passed between
some three or four of the party, and a well-known
wag commenced an anecdote. Major Bangs directed
his attention immediately to the speaker. As the
latter concluded, the major bent upon him a look
of most ineffable sarcasm, and exclaimed—“Bah!”
“I'd like to know what you mean by that insinewation,
Major Bangs?” demanded Ned Jones.
“Doubts arising, sir!” exclaimed the major, with
an oath.
“Doubt who, sir?”
“Doubts arising, sir!” reiterated the major in a
fierce voice, as he gave his chair a whirl from under
him and rose to his feet. “That's what I mean,
sir! Take it up if you dare, sir! Do you know
Major Ferguson Bangs, sir? Take care, young
Whew!” and he gave his teeth a grind that was
distinctly heard in every part of the room.
“I only axed what you meant, major—I don't
want to git into no fuss,” replied Ned, apparently
half terrified out of his wits.
“Fuss!—bah! you asked what I meant. I've
told you, sir. You can pocket it, sir—but don't
know me the next time you see me. Do you understand,
sir? None but gentlemen are permitted
to know Major Bangs, sir.”
Then pacing to and fro, the entire length of the
room, the major complacently observed the effect
of his blustering speech upon the crowd, and casting
a searching look at the young man whom he
had so rudely insulted, and who was now engaged
in earnest consultation with several friends, in one
corner of the room, he exclaimed in a haughty tone—
“I despise a slink!”
“Who do you call a slink?” demanded Jones.
“Every dog knows his own name when he hears
it, sir,” replied the major.
“But look here, mister, I'll let you know I aint
no dog—and I aint gwine to put up with no more
of your insolence, nether!”
“Insolence, sir! Thunder and furies, do you
know who you are talking to, sir?”
“Yes, I'm talkin' to Major Bumblusterbus from
Virginia, what got his horse's tail shaved at the Big
Spring Barbecue, when he was so drunk he didn't
know which eend to put the bridle on. That's who
I'm talkin' to; and if he don't sing small, the fust
had in his life, rite here in this room.”
As the speaker concluded he stripped off his coat
and placed it in the hands of Sammy Stonestreet,
who was now dancing about in an ecstasy of delight
at the prospect of approaching hostilities, while Uncle
Hearty was loud in his expostulations with the crowd.
“Now, boys—come major,” said he, turning from
one party to the other as he spoke, “do stop it now
—whar's the use of kickin' up a rumpus this here
time o'night—look here now—listen to your Uncle
Hearty, and take his advice—he's older than you all
is—come now, Neddy—come, major, let's all take a
drink and drap it.”
By this time—whether from the influence of Uncle
Hearty's harangue, or some other cause, we will not
pretend to say—the fiery major had become quite
docile, while the other party only grew more and
more hostile, until it required some three or four to
hold him off.
“Whar is he?” shouted Jones; “jest let me light
on him, if you want to see how slick Georgia kin top
out old Virginy. Whoopee! I's the boy kin tame
your forket lightnin's! I'm the kuja Dick! the big
buck of the water! the Georgia stag! Whoopee!—
don't hold me!”
“Oh, yes, sir, you've got your friends round you
now, and you can talk big, sir. Major Bangs can
be found when he's got his friends with him, sir, but
he don't fight everybody, sir, nor in a bar-room, sir.”
He was now joined by three or four of the party,
who professed themselves his friends, and who advised
would be much the most genteel way of settling the
difficulty.
“Oh, he's beneath my notice,” said the major—
“I'll not dirty my fingers with him.”
“That will never do, major,” remarked Bill Peters
—“they'll have it all over town before to-morrow
morning, that Major Ferguson Bangs was backed out
by Ned Jones, a man who everybody knows is the
greatest coward that ever lived.”
“Think I ought to call him out, eh, Peters?”
“To be sure I do; but I'm afraid there'll be no
such thing as getting honourable satisfaction out of
him—for I do believe he would quit the state before
he'd fight.”
“Well, sir, I'm of your opinion, sir,—I'll challenge
him to-morrow.”
“Now's the time to cut his comb, major.”
“Challenge him right here, now?”
“Yes, and you'll see how he'll drop his feathers.”
“Well, Peters, write out a challenge, and I'll blow
him to the d—l, sir. How dare he call me Major
Bumblusterbus,—a man belonging to one of the best
Virginia families, sir—Bumblusterbus! That word
will be the death of him, sir. Come, let's take some
liquor, and then we'll fix the challenge.”
Accordingly, Major Bangs, with those who claimed
to be of his party, and our friend Sammy Stonestreet
—who drank on this occasion as a neutral—stepped
up to the bar, and, having drank “success,” pen,
ink, and paper were called for, and a challenge
drawn in due form, which was borne by Peters to
seconds and friends appointed, and the hour
fixed for the meeting, which was to take place on
the following day, at ten o'clock in the morning, in
an old field at a little distance from the town.
“Did he look scared?” asked the major of his
second.
“That he did,—he turned pale as a sheet,” replied
Peters.
“Has he a family, Peters?”
“No.”
“Well, that's fortunate, sir. I suppose he knows
I'm a dead shot—a perfect liner, sir—cut the cross
nine times in ten, on the word. But come, let's take
some more liquor.”
Uncle Hearty announced that it was “bed-time
for all honest people,” and, after exhorting “the
boys” to go home and take a good nap, and try to
get up in a better humour in the morning, that worthy
old gentleman took his departure. Soon after the
party broke up—the more peaceable members to
seek their beds, while the major and his friends went
in search of pistols, bullet-moulds, powder, and other
necessary equipments, in the collection and preparation
of which the balance of the night was spent.
Early on the following morning, Major Bangs was
seen blustering through the streets of Pineville, with
a pair of large duelling pistols under his arm, wrapped
in a red silk handkerchief. His friends had managed
to keep up the excitement by frequent libations during
the night, and he was now “full of valour and
distempering draughts.”
“Do you think he'll show himself on the ground?”
asked the major of his second,—“have you seen him
this morning, sir?”
“No, indeed—the sun did not catch Ned Jones
in the county, this morning, if he had time to get
over the line before it rose.”
“Do you think he has cut out, sure enough?”
“No doubt of it, major.”
“Well, sir, I will have to post him as a coward,
you know. But I'd rather do that than take his life,
sir, and you know I'm a dead shot.”
“To be sure you are, major, and a gentleman of
honour.”
“Of the Virginia stamp, Peters.”
“Right,” said Peters—“let's take some liquor.”
Notwithstanding the strict injunction of secrecy,
Sammy Stonestreet had spread the intelligence of the
approaching duel over the whole town, and, long
before the appointed hour, the best portion of the
male population were on their way to the place of
meeting, to witness the combat. As it drew near
the time, the major and his friends repaired to the
ground, where, greatly to his surprise, he beheld his
antagonist quietly seated upon a log, awaiting his
arrival. As Major Bangs observed Jones and his
friends busied in preparing their arms, notwithstanding
his inner man was well fortified with some half-dozen
glasses of brandy and water, there was a sudden
change in the expression of his countenance, and he
turned to his friend and remarked—
“Why, Peters, there he sits, cool as a cucumber!”
“Sure enough!” replied Peters, with well-affected
of posting him, you know!”
The major was, just at this crisis, afflicted with a
difficulty in swallowing, and before he had time to
reply, one from the adverse party called out—
“Gentlemen, are you ready to lay off the ground?”
“Why, it aint time for that yet, is it, Peters?”
asked the major in a tremulous undertone.
“Yes, sir, we on the part of Major Bangs, are
ready,” replied Peters, without answering the major's
interrogatory.
“Peters,” said the major, grasping him hard by
the arm, and whispering in his ear—“let Dr. Jones
step it off—he's got the longest legs—and tell him
to straddle his best, for you see I'm death on a long
shot.”
The process of pacing off the ground was now performed
with due formality. The pegs were driven,
and the articles between the belligerant parties read.
The principals were then called upon to cast lots
for the choice of position. The major trembled like
an aspen leaf, and his lips were colourless. The
cool deliberation of his antagonist increased his own
trepidation, and, like Bob Acres, he began to feel
his valour “ ooze out at the ends of his fingers.”
“I'm told,” said Peters, approaching with a loaded
pistol, “that Jones is a dead shot on the third or
fourth word—so, major, your best chance is to draw
a quick bead.”
“The h—ll he is!” gasped Bangs. “Why didn't
you tell me that before, Peters?” continued he in a
husky voice; “have you got any liquor?”
A bottle was produced, and the major made a
heavy draw upon its contents.
“I'm not afraid to die, Peters,” said he, as he
handed back the bottle, and his filling eyes rolled
wildly in their sockets, as if he were about to give
up the ghost without a fire. “I aint afraid to die,
but somehow I feel sort o' curious. But it's not
because I'm afraid, Peters. There are some little
matters that ought to be fixed first, and I'd like to
live till my time comes. But,” he continued, grasping
his second by the hand, and vainly endeavouring
to make a show of resolution—“you know
Major Bangs, Peters—”
“To be sure. I know him to be a brave man,
and a man of honour, who would rather die than be
disgraced on the field by—”
“Right, Peters, right—toss up for choice.”
Up went the dollar, and as it whirled in the air,
the major called out—“Heads!”
“Heads it is!” exclaimed Peters. “The choice
is ours, major.”
There was little or no choice in the ground, so
that the major found it a very difficult matter
to decide. By the aid of his second he was at
length enabled to make a selection, and, staggering
to one of the pegs, took his position. Jones
was on the ground in an instant—the seconds
took their respective places, and the individual
who had been appointed to give the word demanded—
“Are you ready, gentlemen?”
“Yes,” answered Jones.
“No! stop!” yelled the major, scarce able to
keep his feet.
“What's the matter?” asked Peters, approaching.
“Do you think Jones wouldn't make it up, Peters?”
whispered the major.
“What, major! We, the challenging party, propose
a compromise! That would never do, you
know. There's no chance of an honourable adjustment
of the matter now, unless they make the proposition
to us. Remember, your honour is at stake,
Major Bangs, your sacred honour.”
This appeal was sufficient, though it was very
evident that the major, like many others who have
found themselves in a similar honourable position,
would much rather have ventured his honour at
stake than his foot at that peg.
“Right, Peters—tell 'em to go ahead,” said he,
concentrating his energies into one desperate effort
to stand erect.
“Are you ready, gentlemen?”
“Yes,” was the answer from both parties
“Fire! (bang) one, two, three, (bang) four, five—
stop!”
Both pistols were discharged—Major Bangs's between
the words “fire” and “one.” After the
discharge of his pistol he could no longer stand,
but fell forward on both knees. A proposition was
then made, at his request, for a reconciliation. But
Jones was inexorable, swore that Bangs had attempted
to dodge his fire, and that he would not leave
the field until blood had been drawn.
“Load up again, boys,” said he, in a voice loud
for him this time, now mind if I don't.”
“If I had a thought he was such a blood-thirsty
devil, I'd never challenged him,” muttered the
major. “I see it plain enough—I'm a dead man,
Peters. The muzzle of his pistol is as large as the
mouth of a Dutch oven, and he loads with buck-shot.”
“Oh, no, major.”
“I'm sure of it, Peters, for I heard 'em whiz
about my head like a swarm of bumble-bees. But
pass the bottle here, Peters, and I'll die like a man
of honour.”
Just at this juncture Jones's second advanced
and desired to speak with Peters. The major,
strong in the belief that a proposition for a reconciliation
was at hand, drew himself up, and assumed
a most valorous bearing—all the chivalric sentiment
of his soul was pumped up for the occasion, and for
a moment he stood the impersonation of resolute defiance.
After a brief consultation, Peters approached
the major, remarking—
“Jones proposes, major, that as one shot has
passed between you without effect, and as he is
satisfied—”
“So am I,” interrupted the major—“I'm perfectly
willing—”
“But hear me out, major. He says he's satisfied
that the distance is too great, and proposes to reduce
it one-half.”
“I'll see him d—d first!” exclaimed the disapappointed
major, all his feathers and his hopes falling
git my head in the muzzle of his pistol.”
The pistols were again loaded, and the parties
took their respective positions. All the major's trepidation
had returned. As he took the pistol in his
trembling hand, he stared wildly into the face of his
second, muttering in a low, husky voice:
“Farewell, Peters—I'm a case.”
“Tut, tut, major, keep a stiff upper lip, and you'll
bring him this time.”
On the next fire, Jones fell to the ground with a
deep groan! There was a rush to the spot—his
breast was covered with blood!
“Oh, my God!” exclaimed Bangs, “I've killed
him! Run, Peters, and call all the doctors in town!
—run, for Heaven's sake, run! Oh, my Lord, what
have I done! The devil will get my soul for this!
—I told 'em I was a dead shot.—Why didn't somebody
stop the duel?” And away he dashed into
town, as fast as he could run, exclaiming—“I've
killed him!—I've killed him!—I told 'em I was a
dead shot!”
An odd specimen of human nature was Major
Ferguson Bangs. A Virginian by birth, he had,
some years previous to the date of our sketch, found
his way to Georgia in the capacity of a negro trader,
and settled near Pineville. The major was a successful
planter, but, though he possessed many broad
acres, and joined fences with several wealthy neighbours,
he had failed in all his attempts to join hearts
a circumstance to which some were disposed to attribute
certain eccentricities of character in which
he was at times wont to indulge. When sober,
there was not a more sensible or better disposed
person to be found than the proud Virginia major;
but with him the old adage which says—“When
wine is in, wit is out,” was most strikingly verified.
Under the influence of liquor he became a very fool,
and, strange as it may seem, sought, on all such
occasions, to sustain the character—for which of all
others he was least qualified—of a fighting man.
He was tall, athletic, and masculine in features,
with a haughty curling lip; but with all these attributes
of a bully, fight was not in his nature; nor
could all the stimulus his system was able to bear
infuse sufficient of the combative principle within
him to render him a hero. The major was singularly
conscientious, and, perhaps, his greatest weakness
was a firm belief in the supernatural. Drunk
or sober he lived in dread of ghosts and apparitions,
and those who knew him best were of opinion that,
coward as he was, he feared man less than he did
the devil.
The reader has already come to the conclusion
that the duel was a sham affair, and that the pistols
were loaded with powder only. Such was the fact,
though Major Bangs, important as was the part sustained
by him in the performance, had been left entirely
ignorant of the trick, and while the balance of
the dramatis personœ were enjoying the farce they
enacted, he was “doing” tragedy in good earnest.
Poor major! not only had he experienced what
it is to be shot at and missed, but now he felt the
mark of Cain as indelibly fixed upon his brow as
if it had been branded there with a piece of red-hot
brimstone, by the very old gentleman himself. He
had honourable friends, too, who stuck by him, determined
to make the most of the occasion. They
drank his health at his own expense, and bragged
of his prowess, by which means they managed to
keep his imagination up to fever heat, during the
balance of the day. Indeed, between the influence
of liquor and the pathetic accounts which they related
to him of Jones's dying agonies, he had become,
towards evening, almost frantic.
About dark, a message was brought to him from
Jones. It was an urgent request that he would
visit him before he died, and receive from him his
pardon and forgiveness.
“No, no, gentlemen; I cannot bear to look at
the man I have murdered!” exclaimed the major.
“But, he says he aint got but a few minutes to live,
no how, and he wants you to come and see him, so he
wont die with no grudge agin anybody,” said one.
“Did he say so, boys?”
“Yes, major, and you better go and make it up
with him, and then you'll be apt to sleep better,
you know.”
“Sleep!” exclaimed the major, glaring his eyes
wildly open, with a vacant stare—“sleep!—no, these
eyes will never sleep again, sir—these eyes—”
“Oh, pshaw, major, come along and don't snap
'em so.”
“Yes, come, major,” said his second, who joined
to persuade him.
“Is that you, Peters? Will you stand by Major
Bangs, Peters? Well, come, boys—but I'd rather
see the devil. Does he look bad, boys? for I can't
look at him if he does.”
“Oh, no, he looks pretty well, considerin' he's got
a ounce ball right through his guzzler vein—”
“That all comes of being a line shot,” interrupted
the major, with an involuntary shudder.
“But you must shake hands and make it all up
with him before he dies, and then you'll feel better.
Besides, major, you know you killed him in an
honourable way.”
“D—n the honourable way!—it all counts the
same—and the devil will make a blizzard of my
soul for it.”
Taking the arms of two of the company, the major
walked over to the “long room” to take a parting
look at his unfortunate antagonist. Jones lay in
a bed with his head bolstered up until he sat almost
erect. His face was well smeared with flour, and
bloody cloths were profusely scattered about the
room. As the major came quaking to the door, it
was flung wide open, and the ghastly spectacle
burst suddenly upon him. Shivering with horror,
he shrunk back aghast, and with mouth distended
and eyeballs starting from their inflamed sockets,
stood for a moment as if transfixed to the spot,
while large drops of perspiration started to his brow.
His foot was braced against the threshold, and all
the force that could be applied to his broad shoulders
At length Jones beckoned him feebly with his hand.
The major flinched. Jones said in a low voice—
“I'm—ah, oh!—I'm gwine, major!—ah, to—
oh!—oh-o-o-o!—”
“Let me go, boys!” shouted Bangs—“let me
go!” and with one desperate effort he shook them
off, and fled from the house. Had he remained a
moment longer, he would have discovered the trick
that had been put upon him; for Jones, unable longer
to restrain his mirth, sprang from the bed and
joined in the laugh.
It had now grown late, and Major Bangs was
permitted to seek his lodgings without further interruption.
His room was upon the ground floor of an
out-house belonging to the hotel—in it there were
several beds, but on this occasion he chanced to be
the only tenant. Filled with horrible imaginings
and gloomy fears, he sought his bed. He was in
no mood to be over nice, and as his boots obstinately
refused to be drawn, he allowed them to remain—his
hat and stock, being articles of minor
importance, were also permitted to occupy their
respective places. Thus half undressed, he threw
himself upon his bed, and endeavoured to find in
the arms of Morpheus a refuge from the upbraidings
of a guilty conscience. But
Waved o'er his couch.”
The horrid spectacle of the dying Jones was constantly
before him, and when he closed his eyes to
fiery tails danced and frisked around him, with red-hot
tridents in their claws, as if ready to pitch him
into that unknown country, of which, in his youth,
he had been taught to entertain a very unfavourable
opinion. It commenced to rain, but the pattering
upon the roof was no opiate to him, and the lightning
only afforded him horrid glimpses of demons
and devils as they skulked into the corners of the
room. The storm became more violent—the lightning
blazed in upon his face, and the thunder shook
the foundations of the old building, while a rumbling
sound seemed to come up from the bowels of the
earth, as if it were about to open to receive him.
He heard the tramp of feet in his room, and
Twine like a knot of snakes around his face,”
old king devil of all approaching his bed. He would
have prayed, shouted, fled, any thing, but his very
soul was frozen within him, and he sank powerless
upon his pillow. The demon approached, and, placing
his cloven foot upon the bed-side, leaned over
and gazed down upon him with his eyes of fire.
The major's lips moved, but he had not breath for
a word—he smelt the brimstone and saw the demon's
horns. He remembered his grandmother's
charm for evil spirits—and he thought “in the name
of the Lord, what do you want of me?” but the demon
only shook its head. In the desperate extremity
of his fear the major grasped forward with both
moment he was upon the floor struggling with his
satanic visiter—a moment after, he was fleeing
through the street, shouting and screaming, on his
way to the tavern.
Some five or six village gossips were seated round
the bar-room fire, when Major Bangs made his entrée
in the eccentric costume we have described.
“Why, what upon yeath's the matter with the major?”
exclaimed uncle Hearty, rising from his seat.
The major shook in every joint—his teeth rattled
and his eyes glared wildly about the room.
“Why, major, what under heavens ails you?”
inquired two or three in the same breath.
“I'm right from h—ll!” gasped the major. “I
had him by the horns!—I told 'em it would be so—
keep him off, wont you, gentlemen—where's Peters?”
“Pore feller!” remarked uncle Hearty—“he's
lost his senses. The boys has been projectin' with
him agin.”
He was wet and cold, and it was quite evident
that his physical strength was fast sinking under the
terrible excitement of his mind. Humanity suggested
that something should be done to check the
raging fever of his brain, or dangerous consequences
might ensue. Accordingly, he was conducted to a
bed and his comfort carefully provided for.
About noon on the following day the major made
his appearance in the bar-room, and desired to see
eyes blood-shotten and heavy, and his countenance
still bore the traces of the dreadful fright he had experienced.
He seemed to have a confused recollection
of the incidents of the past day, but on no
subject was his memory clear and distinct, except
in reference to his encounter with the devil. That
circumstance had made an indelible impression on
his mind, which his friends found great difficulty in
removing—nor is he to this day clearly satisfied that
there was not some infernal agency in the matter.
He was duly informed of all the particulars of the
duel—how he had been drunk, insulting everybody
he met, and how that a few mischievous fellows had
made him the hero of a sham duel.
“But, captain,” said he, “the devil?—I saw
him, sir, last night, as sure as I stand here, sir.”
“You saw my old Billy-goat,” replied the landlord.
“You went to bed in the `long room,' and
left both doors open, and when the rain came on,
Billy sought shelter in your apartment.”
“Oh, but I smelled the brimstone, sir, as plain
as could be.”
“You smelled Billy's beard, major, which is quite
high flavoured, and might be taken for brimstone by
a man who would go to bed in his hat and boots.”
“Then you think it really was him I had the
tussle with, eh?”
“To be sure it was—he is the only horned gentleman
on my premises, I trust.”
“Well,” replied the major, after a moment's reflection,
“I've made a pretty considerable fool of
out, sir, and if ever you catch Major Ferguson
Bangs in another such scrape, sir, may the devil
get him sure enough, sir.”
Major Bangs did not show himself in Pineville
for a long time after this event, and when he did
visit town again, he had but one quarrel, and that
was with the first man who asked him to drink.
He was never known to be drunk after the day of
THE DUEL.
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